


Scars

by Sulla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Knifeplay, M/M, Rimming, Scarification, blood tasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulla/pseuds/Sulla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a response from a prompt calling for bloodplay or knifeplay kink.  This is my first time writing these, so I'm not sure if I got it right, but hopefully it's not too awful.  It's not very extreme blood or knifeplay, just enough to catagorize it as such, I think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

John belonged to Sherlock. And Sherlock belonged to John. But for Sherlock, it was the first part that mattered the most - after all, the second part was just a given. Sherlock had thought of various ideas to mark John as his own so others who might be looking would be able to tell, like buying him some significant piece of jewlery or something of the like. He had eventually shoved those ideas aside, thinking of how impermanent such trinkets were and how they could be taken off and given away or sold. So he'd dropped the idea.

But it never left Sherlock's mind for long. The degree of possessiveness he felt for his partner was extreme, and he loved nothing more than to mark John in any way the man would allow him. There were rules of course - nothing above the collar, nothing that would cause serious physical pain, and nothing that broke the skin - and Sherlock delighted in finding ways to mark the man with love-bites and finger-tip bruises, even one long, memorable evening with a Sharpie permanent marker. John wasn't too keen on the marks that were left on the inside of his clothes after that incident, so it was one that was not to be repeated.

It was because of John's rules that Sherlock had at first set his mind on a tattoo. It could be under the clothes and didn't hurt very much from most accounts, and while it did pierce the skin, it was a sort of piercing that John might agree too. After all, tattoos were now acceptable on all levels of society, as long as they were tasteful and easy to cover up. An "S" and an "H" together would be perfect, Sherlock thought - and if it was his choice, he'd put it right on John's chest. Putting "the property of" above the letters would probably be going to far, and he wrestled with himself over whether or not to bring up that part at all. No, that was probably a bit not good. After all, the initials themselves would imply very strongly on their own; no need to go overboard with the explanation, right?

However, even before he brought the notion of a tattoo up with John, he had rejected it himself. It was not personal enough. Some stranger sitting in a room with them, drawing out Sherlock's initials instead of Sherlock himself doing it? Never. He couldn't bear it. But in the range of his research he had come across the practice of knifeplay and scarification. As soon at the idea came to him, it took hold, and wouldn't let him go. He did further research into techniques and correct sanitation of the process and finally thought he might have a chance to convince John of the idea.

He was careful to catch John at his most pliable, satiated moment. So one day while they lay in bed after a long, spectacular fuck, Sherlock brought the idea up.

"John, I want to mark you," he started.

"I let you mark me all the time, Sherlock, and you know it," replied John, jumping in before he could get any further.

"Yes, but I'd like something permanent. I have an idea. Will you at least listen to what I have to say?" he asked, running his fingers through a puddle of come that had collected on John's stomach.

John sighed. "All right. I'll listen. But I'm not promising anything, Sherlock."

"Fine. Okay. How would you feel about a small tattoo?"

John looked at him sideways. "Your initials?"

Sherlock stared at him, taken aback.

John huffed. "You can't think I'm so painfully stupid to not have noticed you writing your name with your finger on my body over and over?

Sherlock quirked a smile. "Point. So, would you consider it?"

John was silent for a moment, thinking. "Well..yes, I would consider it, if it was really what you wanted..."

This was what Sherlock had been waiting for. "Okay. My next question. Do you know about scarification?"

"What," asked John, "you mean the cutting of the skin with marks and symbols?"

"Something like that, yes."

John stared at Sherlock, expressionless. "You want to cut your name into my skin."

John looked like he was ready to bolt any second. Sherlock began to stroke his side and arm like he was a nervous horse.

"Not my whole name, no. Just an S and an H."

John's face didn't look like he was much reassured. Sherlock jumped into his explanation before John could flee.

"Just think about it, John! The cuts would be so shallow there wouldn't be any more blood than with a tattoo, and it would be _me_ carving it! _Me_! Not some stranger. You see, the technique is to cut your design very shallowly into the skin, and then rub some tattoo ink into the incisions. Then drop some New Skin over it, and there you are, marked and _mine_." Sherlock punctuated the last word with a lap of his tongue over John's half-hard cock.

And imagine that - John had just come, and now he was getting hard. Sherlock thought there might be some promise there. He looked up at John's face, and was relieved that the expression had changed from something approaching horror to something approaching interest.

"And where, may I ask, would you want to cut you initials into me?"

Sherlock smiled. He'd been waiting for that question. He had changed his mind about doing it on his chest, and had picked a much better location. "Roll over," he instructed.

John's right eyebrow lifted, but he slowly rolled over onto his front, ignoring the sticky, wet feeling of his come being rubbed into the sheets. Sherlock sat up beside him, and and placed his hand right on the small of John's back, about an inch or two above the start of the cleft of his buttocks.

"Here."

John looked back at Sherlock over his shoulder. "And how big?"

Sherlock held up his thumb and index finger, about two inches apart.

John just slowly nodded and rolled back onto his back. He was silent for a long moment.

"I'll think about it."

*****

And John thought about it. Sherlock carried on as normal, conducting his various experiments and investigations, and John spent his time either at the surgery or following Sherlock to crime scenes. But in his free time, Sherlock bought some oranges and procured some disposable scalpels from St. Barts, and he practiced cutting his initials into the skin of the oranges, taking the time to learn the right level of pressure to use and what kind of cuts each level created. He would have preferred to just use spare body parts from the morgue, but he couldn't imagine John would enjoy seeing him carve his initials all over cadavers. So he used oranges (when John was around) and he shared his results with John, who seemed passingly interested, but was silent regarding any thoughts on a final decision. Sherlock was most hopeful.

Finally one night while Sherlock was perfecting his cutting technique, and John was writing up one of their latest escapades in his blog, John spoke up.

"OK."

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

"Okay, I'll let you cut your bloody initials in me!"

Sherlock smiled slowly. "Now?" he asked, jumping up, scalpel in one hand, orange forgotten in the other.

John closed his laptop with a grin. "Fine, yes, now. But I want you using a fresh scalpel!"

Sherlock looked at the one he was holding and threw it with a grunt into the sharps bin he'd been keeping during his experiments. He grabbed up three fresh scalpels, a bottle of peroxide, a bottle of tattooing ink, some gauze pads, alcohol wipes, the sharps bin, a pair of latex gloves and a bottle of New Skin. He took them upstairs to John's room (which had by default become the room they slept in), and grabbed an old, but clean towel on the way there. John followed him up without prompting.

Sherlock laid the towel on the bed in the middle where John's hips would be resting, and set everything else aside on the bedside table.

"So where do you want me?" John asked, already looking nervous. Can't have that, thought Sherlock, and he reached for John's neck and pulled him in for a long, thorough kiss. He stroked John's sides with his hands, eventually coming down to cup his buttocks through his trousers.

"I want you here, with me. Always," Sherlock murmured. John shivered at the words as they were whispered into his ear.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and just rested his head against the man's chest for a moment, listening to his heartbeat. Sherlock pushed him away again to arms length, and then began to slowly and sensuously undress the doctor, kissing each bit of skin as it was revealed. He was already topless when Sherlock took his trousers off, and the tent in John's pants was enough to convince Sherlock that the man was not afraid of what was to come.

"Let me take these off," Sherlock whispered, and pulled the front of the pants out and down, careful not to catch John's substantial length in the cloth while pulling the item off. John's cock was fully hard, leaking slightly at the tip, and his foreskin was pulled halfway back, showing the tip of the glans, but covering the rim of the crown. Sherlock took him in hand for a moment, and pulled on him twice, loving to hear the gasp of his partner at the sensation. John sighed quietly in disappointment when Sherlock took his hand away.

"Okay, John, lie down on you stomach, if you would, placing your hips and lower belly over the towel?"

John complied quickly and after toeing off his socks he lay down on the bed in the aforementioned position,

Sherlock sat on the bed next to him, grinning happily. It was really happening! Marking John as his own! Oh, what a day!

He first put on the gloves and then took the alcohol swabs and swabbed down the whole area of John's lower back to clean the area for the incisions. He then unwrapped a new scalpel, and, straddling John's upper thighs, he was now in position to make the cuttings.

He started with the S, making it, as he had researched, in mostly straight lines, almost like a lightning bolt. It was done with three controlled cuts. The blade sank into the flesh easily, and John made a hissing noise with each of them. Droplets of blood welled to the surface of his skin, and Sherlock picked up a little of the blood on one of his gloved fingers and brought it to his mouth. The taste of John, he thought, closing his eyes in raptural mental bliss. It was not as nice as John's semen, but is was his life's blood, and so he respected it greatly. He took a gauze pad and wiped away the excess blood from the spot. The same procedure was repeated for the H, also three straight lines, and again he tasted the blood, taking the time to savour it.

John was silent throughout the H, not even hissing at the pain, and Sherlock could feel how tense the man was, so he wrapped things up as fast as he could. He wiped up the excess blood from the H again, and then poured a little bit of tattoo ink over the area, using his gloved fingers to rub the ink into the cuts. John did hiss at this, and Sherlock soothed John with his voice, murmuring how much this meant to him and how he would always know the mark was there and know that John was _home_ , and how much he loved him.

As soon as the ink was in, he poured peroxide over the cuts to sanitize the area, and then, after drying the area off with another gauze pad, he dripped a few drops of New Skin over the shape of the letters, which formed a safe, see-through layer of 'skin' to stop any residual bleeding and to keep the area clean.

Sherlock looked down at his handiwork, and couldn't have been happier. The SH stood out strongly in black on John's lower back, just before you got to the cleft of his ass, and Sherlock knew that he would always be looking at the mark as when he fucked John from behind, and when he went to rim him. He looked forward, in the future, to running his tongue over the mark over and over again, and to just walking down the street with his hand held just dipped into his trousers to touch the mark.

Sherlock, throughout all this stayed fully clothed. But, he was hard as a rock the entire time.

Finally, standing up, he grabbed up all the detrietus laying on the towel beside John and dumped them into the sharps bin he had brought up. He took off the gloves then and disposed of them as well. As soon as he had done this, he leaned down to give John a kiss and to check how he was feeling. John was smiling, and put much effort into the kiss, so Sherlock was reassured.

"Stay on your front," he instructed in a murmur, and John raised that eyebrow to him again but did as he was told.

Sherlock eased back down John's body, spreading John's legs and seating himself on his knees between them. Oh, god, that mark. Sherlock quickly shed his shirt, and shimmied out of his trousers and pants. He didn't take his eyes off the mark for an instant. Leaning forward, he kissed the skin under it, and then kissed both of John's buttocks before spreading the cheeks and exposing John's twitching hole to his eyes.

Giving the SH one last long glance, Sherlock began licking up and down the cleft of John's arse, coming back time and again to the furled skin of his anus. Eventually he focused there, and began prodding the hole with his tongue. John, by this point, was thrusting his hips back and forth, back onto his tongue and forward to drive his cock into the towel beneath him. His hand came down by his side, and Sherlock wordlessly grasped that hand with one of his own, squeezing and feeling himself further warmed by John's squeeze in return.

Finally Sherlock sat up and reached for the lubricant. John was panting with his head to one side, so Sherlock could see his flushed face and sweaty brow. Sherlock grinned as he slicked his cock and his fingers, and then, putting the lube away, he buried his face in John's arse again. This time as his tongue breeched John's hole, a finger came along with it, with a second quickly added, the two fingers stretching apart to make the hole that much wider to accomodate Sherlock's cock, which he was pumping with his free hand.

"Sherlock," John said, startling him.

"Yes John," he asked, fingers still buried inside John's body.

"Just fuck me, Sherlock. Just fucking take me. I'm yours now, I've always been yours, I'll always be yours, and I want you to fuck me into the fucking stratosphere, so fucking _do_ it, fuck me!"

"... Well, that was quite the spee..."

"Fuck me!"

"Yes dear," Sherlock replied, and he moved forward and placed the head of his cock to John's entrance. He didn't think this was the time for teasing, so he put the head there and just _pushed_ , feeling John's flesh seperate for him, and his body accept Sherlock's length and girth. The head and tighness were intense as always, and Sherlock had to refrain from just shoving into the hilt and pounding the scarred man into the mattress.

Unfortunately, that was exactly what John wanted, and he cottened on quickly that Sherlock was treating him with kid gloves. So he took it upon himself and thrust back sharply against Sherlock's cock, impaling himself to the hilt in one single movement.

"Do it!" John all but yelled.

He'd certainly gotten Sherlock's attention. He gripped John hard by the hips, and lifting them up so that the man was on his knees and resting his head and shoulder still on the bed, Sherlock started to pound into the man. He thrust wildly and without control, trying various rhythms and levels of force, and eventually having to follow John across the bed as the force of their fucking was making them cross the bed slowly with their movements. Finally John ended up with his hands against the wall, steadying himself with that one hand as he frantically jerked his own cock to a jarring and long-lasting orgasm.

Sherlock drowned himself in the feeling of this man's body convulsing around him. He was staring fixedly at the SH above John's arse, and as the ripples of muscle constricting around his cock began to relax, Sherlock gave one final thrust and came so hard that he thought his brain was going exit his nostrils. His cock twitched and pumped every last drop of semen that he had into John's arse, and at the end of it he fell back down backwards to avoid landing on John's back and hurting him. He stared in front of him as John's hole tried to close around nothing.

"Fuck, look at your hole, John. God. My mark on your body my come in your arse. You're mine, John Watson, and don't ever forget it."

John sank down so that his front was on the towel again. "Somehow I don't think there's much chance of that happening, Sherlock. I'm yours, for better or for worse"

He leaned up to kiss Sherlock square on the lips, and Sherlock couldn't help his purr of contentment.


End file.
